


so throw me a land line, this is more like a land mine

by phae



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Arguing, Established Relationship, M/M, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Season 2 Compliant, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:59:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4884646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint calls Phil from his death bed. Death cement? Whatever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from _Alienation_ by Morning Parade.
> 
> Based on this prompt: Person B knowing they’re undoubtedly about to die within the next few seconds, likely from the gaping wound they’re bleeding out from. Instead of calling for help, they phone Person A and carry on a casual conversation as if nothing is wrong, making sure to mention how much they love them before their time runs out.

The number’s programmed into Clint’s phone. Has been for going on a year now. He’s got it saved under Roger Stevenson ‘cause he’s a sentimental idiot, and that’s the cover ID he’d first uncovered once he’d realized one of the infamous Men in Black was following him back during his ill-conceived merc-days.

 

It takes him a few tries to first get his phone out of his pocket and then unlock the touch screen. His hands are silky-slick with blood, but he’s pretty sure it’s more theirs than his, so at least there’s that.

 

He leaves a dark red fingerprint on the protective glass screen when he hits the call button. He waits through three rings and then–

 

“Coulson.”

 

“Hey, sir. Long time, no talk, huh?”

 

“Barton? How’d you get this number?”

 

“What, no _hey, honeybunch. How’s your day going?”_ The sun is setting, and there’s a slant of blinding light coming in through the high window of the warehouse, angled so it’s right in his eyes. He shuffles sideways as best he can so that the strip falls across his arm rather than his face. “I’ve got ways, you know. Well, Natasha’s got ways and I’ve got Natasha, so same thing, basically.”

 

“But how did she even _know–”_

 

“It’s all a web of spies, Phil. Best not to question it, really.”

 

He hears Phil sigh down the line. It’s a touch too weary to be the sigh Clint’s most accustomed to (exasperated with a side of fondness). Phil must be tired. “To what do I owe the pleasure then?”

 

“Oh, you know, just checking in. All them motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane. Everything copacetic on your end?”

 

“Well, we’re alive.”

 

“Yeah. Know how that goes.”

 

“What about you?”

 

Clint glances down his torso at the expanse of wet, sticky fabric covering him. He’s pretty sure the effected area is spreading. “Eh. I’ve been better.”

 

“Do you need an evac? Where are you?”

 

Clint’s not entirely sure what continent he’s on, actually, so best to avoid that topic. Not much help an evac’s going to be, anyways. “No worries. I’ll handle it.”

 

“Then why the phone call?”

 

“Just missed your voice, I guess.”

 

“Clint…”

 

“No, hey, Nat got me your number ‘cause there’s some things I’ve been wanting to say. Just took me a while to be ready to say ‘em, you know?”

 

There’s a lengthy pause before Phil finally says, “I’m listening.”

 

Right, well then. Clint nods to himself, decisive-like, ‘cause there’s no time like the present, except that nodding leaves the room spinning, so he should probably stop moving and get the talking done while he still can, seeing as the present’s really all he’s got left. “I’m mad at you. That’s not the main thing, but I’m getting there. It all builds up. I’m seriously pissed off with how this all got played out, and while I realize that you probably didn’t get a lot of say in the matter, you never tried to reach out to me, to any of us, not even just to let us know you were alive, which we’d figured out all on our own, thanks. So I don’t forgive you, pretty sure I’m never gonna be inclined to, ‘cause you sure as shit ain’t done nothing to deserve it.”

 

“I understand.”

 

“Do you? I mean, you don’t have the whole story, don’t know anything that’s been going down on my end of things, so I don’t really see how you could.”

 

“Is there a reason you’re not shouting all this? I feel like you should be yelling at me.“

 

Clint wants to say, _Kinda surprised I’m still talking at all with this many holes in me_ , _fucking shotguns, you know?_ But that’d probably be cruel, and while he may be careless and tactless and just plain stupid sometimes, he does what he can to never be cruel on purpose. “I’ve had a lot of time to rehearse the whole spiel,” he says instead. “Tired myself out on the yelling part a while back.”

 

He can hear Phil breathing on the other end; he doesn’t remember Phil ever breathing so noticeably before. “Was there anything else?”

 

“Yeah. The main thing.” Clint’s mouth feels really dry, but licking his lips isn’t helping any. Logically, he’s pretty sure it’s sweltering in the warehouse, since it definitely was about an hour ago when he snuck in, except that he feels really cold now even though he’s been sweating buckets all day. “I’m mad, and I don’t forgive you, but I still love you.”

 

“Clint–”

 

He can’t feel his legs anymore. “That’s my piece. Bye, Phil.”

 

“Wait–”

 

It takes Clint two tries to end the call, and he can still make out the sound of Phil’s voice talking to him, but it’s too indistinct to understand. He should probably take the shitty phone apart and destroy the SIM card, ‘cause who knows who’ll find his body (though his money’s on HYDRA), but he’s losing dexterity fast, so he settles for smashing the whole phone to bits.

 

Him and Natasha always say their own kind of silent goodbyes whenever they head out on missions without each other, so there’s nothing more for Clint to do now other than wait to die.

 

At least the sun’s out of his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil nods to Dr. Cho as he enters the medical suite where they’ve set up the Cradle, Clint’s still body laying inside. She briefly glances up from the monitors before providing him with an update unprompted. “The damage to his internal organs has been fully repaired. There’s only the actual skin over his abdomen left to replace, and that should be finished within the next two hours. After that, there’s no reason he shouldn’t be moved out to a regular bed for rest and observation. As far as regaining consciousness goes, there’s nothing more we can do for him but to wait and see.”

 

Phil edges around the room until he has a clear view of Clint’s face, careful of all the high-tech equipment. It’s too lax; even in sleep Clint’s face is always doing _something_. When Phil and Mel had reached him in that warehouse in Brazil, he’d been so pale from blood-loss, in addition to being unresponsive, and at least his skin color looks healthy again. “So he’s in a coma?”

 

“Medically induced for now. But nothing on his brain scans has indicated any kind of head trauma, so once the meds have made their way fully through his system, he should wake up on his own.”

 

“Should?”

 

“His body is nearly fully healed, well beyond his usual status given his tendency to avoid medical treatment and nurse his wounds in private. The rest is up to him.”

 

Phil nodded and didn’t allow himself the catharsis of a few tears; Clint wasn’t out of the woods yet. “Thank you, Dr. Cho. For all your hard work on his case and for agreeing to come in on such short notice.”

 

Dr. Cho meets his eyes for a moment and smiles faintly, an edge of teasing to the set of her mouth. “It was no trouble. The technology for the Cradle has yet to pass governmental screening, so any chance for a willing guinea pig is welcome.”

 

“Don’t let Barton hear about that or he’ll start demanding you pay him for being your test subject.”

 

Dr. Cho’s laughter is light and buoyant like a wind chime. “Saving his life isn’t enough payment for him?”

 

“He has a tendency to wake up craving the greasiest of fast food, so he’ll need ample funds at his immediate disposal.”

 

“He can have a salad and a fruit smoothie.”

 

“We should go ahead and strap him to the bed, then. He’ll claim he needs the restroom then make a run for it.”

 

“I’m sure you’ll catch up to him before he gets too far.” Dr. Cho’s head tilts to the side and her easy expression falls away as she confidently declares, “He _will_ be fine, Phillip.”

 

“Thought you said the rest was on him.”

 

Dr. Cho shrugs amicably before turning back to the monitors. “I’ve found that having faith in my patients goes a long way.”

 

* * *

 

When Clint’s fingers twitch, jerking Phil out of an uneasy sleep with his head pillowed near Clint’s thigh, Phil sits back and waits for Clint to actually come to before speaking. What he means to say is something between a joke and a reprimand, like, “You might have lead with the fatal gunshot wounds.”

 

Instead, what he starts with is a cold, “Was that your way of getting even with me? Calling me up to talk while you’re damn well _dying_ on the other end of the line?”

 

Clint blinks at him groggily before moving on to take in his surroundings. His gaze stops pointedly at the water pitcher on the table next to the bed, and Phil pours out a glass with shaking hands, adding a straw and handing it over so that he can back away from the bed before he does something monumentally stupid like strangle Clint.

 

Clint sips at his water and then smacks his lips together loudly. It’s a long, charged moment before he replies, “Doesn’t make us even at all.”

 

“Are you serious right now?” Phil demands, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

 

“I had to bury you.” Clint’s glare is sharp and accusing when he turns it on Phil full force. “Not even real you, a fucking empty coffin with your name tacked on because SHIELD refused to release your body. I fucking _mourned_ you for six months. I was dead for what, a few minutes?” 

 

“That doesn’t make it okay!”

 

“Yeah, no joke,” Clint scoffs.

 

“If you’re waiting for an apology, you’re not going to get it.“

 

“Figured.” Clint shrugs and then frowns faintly, idly starting to stretch his muscles out as he catalogs the damage. “You’re shit at ‘em anyway. An explanation would be nice, but I ain’t holding out high hopes for that either.”

 

Phil crumples back into the visitor’s chair, suddenly drained and exasperated and guilty. “Can we start this conversation over? Pretend you just woke up again?”

 

“Fine. Have it your way, as usual.” Clint’s not looking at him anymore, and his tone is too carefully even despite the raspy scratch that disuse has added to his voice. “Yawn, stretch, my, however did I land myself in medical this time?”

 

Phil sighs expansively through his nose and bulldozes on past Clint’s sarcasm. “I love you. And I’m glad you’re not dead.”

 

“Ditto.”

 

“What, I’m only good enough for the actual words when you’re on your death bed?”

 

“Fuck you,” Clint immediately throws back, but there’s no heat to it oddly enough. “Get me on some of the good drugs and maybe I’ll be inclined to be more affectionate.”

 

Phil sits forward abruptly, hand poised over his phone to call for Dr. Cho. “Are you hurting? You shouldn’t be experiencing anything worse than some general muscle soreness–”

 

“My head’s fucking killing me.”

 

Phil immediately pulls up the room controls on his tablet, abandoned on the side table when he finally grew too tired to see straight. He adjusts the lighting to a dim glow and lowers the temperature because Clint likes the comfort of burrowing into his blankets when a migraine sets in, but he hates getting sweaty underneath them. His eyes do a quick scan of the room, but there’s no take-out boxes lying around from his prolonged stay by Clint’s side, and the trash has been recently emptied, so there shouldn’t be any overpowering food smells lingering that might make Clint feel nauseous.

 

Clint sighs in relief when the air conditioner audibly kicks on, rolling onto his side and pulling the hospital blanket up high around his ears. “ _Now_ I love you.”

 

“But you’re still mad at me.”

 

“You still mad at me?”

 

“Furious.”

 

“Then there you go.”


End file.
